THOMAS HARDY
'Gone,' I call them, gone for good, that group of local
hearts and heads; Yet at mothy curfew-tide, And at midnight when the noon-heat breathes it back
from walls and leads, They've a way of whispering to me fellow-wight who
yet abide
In the muted, measured note Of a ripple under archways, or a lone cave's stillicide.
'We have triumphed: this achievement turns the bane to
antidote,
Unsuccesses to success, Many thought-worn eves and morrows to a morrow free
of thought.
'No more need we corn and clothing, feel of old terrestrial
stress;
Chill detraction stirs no sigh; Fear of death has even bygone us. death gave all that we
possess.'
W. D. 'Ye mid burn the old bass-viol that set I such value
by.' Squire. 'You may hold the manse in fee,
You may wed my spouse, may let my children's memory
of me die.'
Lady. 'You may have my rich brocades, my laces; take
each household key; Ransack coffer, desk, bureau;
Quiz the few poor treasures hid there, con the letters kept by me.'
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